Storydwelling’s community reflection on Sunday, October 28, 2026
John 11:1-14
There was a certain man named Lazarus, who was sick. He and his sisters, Mary and Martha, were from the village of Bethany. Mary was the one who had anointed the feet of Jesus with perfume and dried his feet with her hair, and it was her brother Lazarus who was sick. The sisters sent this message to Jesus “Rabbi, the one you love is sick.”
When Jesus heard this, he said, “This sickness will not end in death; it is happening for God’s glory, so that God’s Only Begotten may be glorified because of it.”
Jesus loved these three very much. Yet even after hearing that Lazarus was sick, he remained where he was staying for two more days. Finally he said to the disciples, “Let’s go back to Judea.”
They protested, ‘Rabbi, it was only recently that they tried to stone you– and you want to go back there again?”
Jesus replied, “Aren’t there twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk by day don’t stumble, because they see the world bathed in light; those who go walking by night will stumble because there is no light in them.”
After Jesus said this, he said to the disciples, “Our beloved Lazarus has fallen asleep. I am going to Judea to wake him.”
The disciples objected, “But Rabbi, if he’s only asleep, he’ll be fine.”
Jesus had been speaking about Lazarus’ death but they thought he was talking about actual sleep. So he said very plainly, “Lazarus is dead!”
Can we say it plainly? We are being dealt death.
We try and make sanctuaries– places of safety–and it feels today like nothing is impenetrable. Death gets in.
And so we weep.
Weeping in our homes, on Thursday as we awaited news;
weeping at the entrance to Silver Rail, where the memorial grows–-
weeping at Drake Park yesterday at No Kings, as people gathered to lament the violence wrought by systems that do serve us, nor do they intend serve us–
weeping at news of ICE abductions from store parking lots here in Bend yesterday.
Friends, we won’t participate in the grief Olympics–no grief is more important or more tender than another–
where there is pain, tenderness is there, and so God is there.
We are so, so sad.
But to be a grief people–people who know the saltiness of our tears quite well–
is no shame. It means we are human, which means we are made of stardust, which means we are connected to our siblings– moon and ocean– who make the tides go and the salt waters flow.
We cannot risk not grieving.
Grief is a sign of love.
We love this place, this town we call home;
we love our neighbors and wish we knew them better;
we love those children and that teacher, because we love them all, all of them are ours
all five who died– are ours.
Let us not be people who bypassed our sadness in favor of good opinions; let us not rush to stand on the right side of history without first standing here together, shoulder to shoulder, in lament. We will want to remember what this feels like– not here (head) but here.
And so we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of lament and grief.
+ANGER+
John 11:30-37
Jesus hadn’t gotten to the village yet. He was at the place where Martha had met him. Those who were there consoling her saw her get up quickly and followed Mary, thinking she was going to the tomb to mourn. When Mary got to Jesus, she fell at his feet and said, “If you had been here, Lazarus never would have died.”
When Jesus saw her weeping, and the other mourners as well, he was troubled in spirit, moved by the deepest emotions.
“Where have you laid him?” Jesus asked.
“Come and see,” they said. And Jesus wept.
The people in the crowd began to remark, “See how much he loved him!” Others said, “He made the blind person see; why couldn’t he have done something to prevent Lazarus’ death?”
The thing is, we have been made to feel like the kind of violence we experienced on Thursday is inevitable. These things happen.
Truly I tell you: this was the 26th school shooting so far in 2026.
Truly I tell you: gun violence is now the leading cause of death of children in the United States.
It’s become kind of kind of like… the weather.
We must adapt and bend to where the wind blows.
But friends: we cannot let that be true.
This is not the weather.
And so it is okay to be angry. More than angry.
Because it did not have to be this way;
we were made for so much better than this.
The powers and principalities–they will ask us trick questions:
is this a mental health issue, or a gun issue?
My anger tells me: we can address both.
The money is there, but the political will is not.
They will ask us trick questions:
See? A good guy with a gun stopped a bad guy with a gun.
My anger tells me: that good man who no doubt saved lives on Thursday
was forced to kill another man’s child in order to do so.
That’s not good news– that’s a setup.
They will ask us trick questions:
if there was something more, a better intention for our lives–
wouldn’t that “God” have saved those children?
And oh but don’t I have that question too.
Because I am angry.
And yet: there is a reason Jesus will call to his “Abba” God- which means parent.
There is a reason the ancients called the Divine Father, Mother, Nurturer, Caretaker.
Parents can’t keep all the bad things away–
can’t stop the bad things from happening,
control and orchestrate everything that happens.
That’s not parents’ job. It’s parents’ job to love.
It is parents’ job to weep
as we watch our hearts walk around outside of our bodies.
And parents’ job to know that rage that comes from love is powerful and clarifying.
So we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of anger.
+LIFE+
John 11:38-44
Jesus was again deeply moved. They approached the tomb, which was a cave with a stone in front of it. “Take away the stone,” Jesus directed.
Martha said, “Rabbi, it has been four days now. By this time there will be a stench.”
Jesus replied, “Didn’t I assure you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took the stone away.
Jesus raised his eyes to heaven and said, “Abba, thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd, that they might believe that you sent me!”
Then Jesus called out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
And Lazarus came out of the tomb, still bound hand and foot with linen strips, his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus told the crowd, “Untie him and let him go free.”
Jesus knew, we know:
the only antidote to violence is, as adrienne maree brown says, loving and choosing Life.
The antidote is Life.
The antidote is resurrection– to rise again.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, certainly not all at once.
To practice radical nonviolence with the violent patterns of Empire–
a culture that loves guns more than it loves children,
a culture that encourages isolation and tells us we are okay on our own–
to interrupt these patterns is to be resurrection people.
Resurrection happens not once, not twice, but ten times in these sacred texts.
Jesus did it not because it’s a one and done thing–
but to remind us that it must be done.
It simply must.
Resurrection is an ongoing reality.
And to walk in The Way of radical nonviolence and love of the rabbi, healer, brother Jesus
is to see signs of resurrection, signs of life, all around us.
Maybe not today, or tomorrow; maybe not all at once.
And when you can’t, I’ll see them for you;
just as when I can’t, you will.
So this is a dispatch from a resurrection people:
on Thursday, we walked to the playground, because what could we do?
And our boys started playing with a younger child, the dad joined in, Tom joined in, and we all played red light green light together, without awkwardness or fear of stranger.
At the same time, I knew Summer Baird was bringing chocolate ice cream to The Guest Family.
At the same time, I knew that William Guest was alive and safe at home.
At the same time as I know that those who died on Thursday are held in the Love that Surpasses all understanding–not alive in the sense they deserve to be but alive in the indescribable mystery some of us so inadequately call God.
We grieve, we let anger clarify us, and we see signs of life.
And friends, I want to hear yours: your signs of resurrection.
So we beckon Holy Spirit, Sanctus Spiritus, to hear our prayers of Life.
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